


Do This For the Last Time

by Crowgirl



Series: Scars Remind Us [38]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Arguing, M/M, Well-Deserved Bitchslap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing discussion, and ramifications thereof, between Dean and Castiel about the after-effects of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do This For the Last Time

XXXVIII.

Dean has his back to him when Castiel drops into the motel room. This particular motel has a strange set-up which the owners call ‘suites’: each tiny room is adjoined to another in sets of two or three. Sam has retreated to his own half of the ‘suite’ and, as far as Castiel can tell from the soft noises drifting through the closed door, is snoozing in front of an old movie.

Evidently hearing the movement, Dean does not bother to turn around, but simply continues his end of a conversation: ‘You’re really gonna put your money on ghouls again, Sammy? ‘Cause I think you’re gonna end up buying dinner for a week after it turns out to be a w--’ He turns around as he speaks, the barrel of the handgun he is cleaning in one hand and the cleaning rag in the other and falls silent in mid-sentence as he sees Castiel. 

He stares at Castiel for a long minute and then makes a vague gesture towards him with the gun barrel. ‘I...uh...I thought you hit the road.’

‘I changed my mind.’

‘Okay --’ Dean drops the barrel back on the towel with the rest of the disassembled weapon and begins carefully wiping his hands clean with the rag. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘I wish to know why you chose that young man.’ Castiel keeps his voice even with something of an effort. It is not a question he honestly wishes to have answered but the _lack_ of an answer is obsessing him.

‘You -- what young man?’ Dean blinks and shakes his head, then his green eyes go sharp and hard and he throws the rag down on the bed. ‘Cas, have you been _spying_ on me?’

‘No. I have been watching you. As, you say, I always do.’

‘You said you didn’t watch that!’

‘I want to know why you chose that young man.’

‘What -- that fuckin’ _Joel_ kid? Jesus!’ Dean throws up his hands. ‘I don’t fucking know! He was there; he was cute; he bought me a drink -- I don’t -- Christ, Cas, it’s not like I had a check-list or something!’

Castiel takes a step further towards him. ‘I -- would like you to tell me what -- the difference between us.’

‘Between...you and me?’ Dean waves a hand between them. ‘Well, I don’t fucking follow _you_ around everywhere! We could start with that!’

‘No. Between me--’ Castiel taps his chest. ‘--and Joel.’

‘I don’t...what the hell are you asking me?’ Dean shakes his head again, as if there is an insect buzzing about his ears, and glares up at Castiel. ‘The difference between you? About -- a foot, maybe? Twenty pounds or so? He’s blond? You’ve got blue eyes? He’s not a goddamned _angel?_ I don’t fucking know, Cas!’

‘Why did you...’ Castiel can feel the hot clenching in his chest again and takes a deep breath, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat. His fingers bump against something in the left-hand pocket and he can feel the slight weight of the chapstick. He wraps his fingers around it as though it will somehow help him find words. ‘Why did you choose him?’

‘ _Choose_ him? In case you haven’t noticed, Cas, we’re kinda in the ass-end of nowhere. It wasn’t like I had a lot to choose _from._ And it wasn’t like I went out _looking_ \--’ Dean stops short and bites his lip hard.

‘But why...’ Castiel has to stop and take a deep breath again, and he looks up at the ceiling, picturing the stars as they had shone above him the previous night: cool, calm, distant. He can feel the tiny bruises from his nails sore on his palm.

Perhaps there is no point to this conversation.

Perhaps all he is doing is worsening his own bruise.

Dean has given it no thought.

Perhaps he misunderstood from the beginning.

‘Cas?’ 

He blinks and Dean is looking up at him, head tilted slightly to one side. His eyes are no longer hard and he looks a tiny bit worried. ‘You okay?’

‘I am fine.’ He can feel the sharp edge of the bottom of the chapstick tube cutting into his finger; it is too blunt to draw blood, but it is uncomfortable. 

‘Then maybe you could try makin’ a bit of sense.’

‘I would have -- I wish you --’ Castiel can hear himself stammering, unable to pick a sentence to finish and he has no idea what he should say next. ‘He likes you.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Joel.’

Dean’s eyes go dark and he picks up the rag again, bending forward, elbows on knees, and suddenly absorbed in cleaning oil from his nails. ‘Yeah, well. Not now he doesn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘’Cause I stood him up. Gave him a fake cell number, too.’

‘Why?’

Dean stares at him for a solid minute before he looks away. ‘Because I’m fucking bad luck, Cas. You should--’ Dean clenches the rag into a ball and throws it at the nearest wastepaper basket. He misses by a clear foot and curses under his breath. He gets up and retrieves the rag. 

‘Are you cursed? Did something happen on the hunt?’

‘What?’ Dean drops the rag in the basket and turns back, shoving his oil-stained hands into his pockets. ‘No. Well --’ He shrugs. ‘We drew a little fey chick a map, but that was about it.’

‘Then why should you be bad luck?’ 

Dean groans. ‘Jesus, Cas, don’t make me do this --’

‘I do not understand! You will not explain it to me!’ Castiel strides across the room, wanting to grab Dean by the shoulders and shake him hard until he explains himself in full detail. 

There are subtleties going by -- nuances of human behavior that Castiel knows he is missing and it makes him furious. 

If he only understood instinctively, as Joel might have, what that tilt of Dean’s head meant, what his refusal to meet Castiel’s eyes really _meant_ \-- He had thought he knew, that he could understand anything Dean would say to him. 

He had hoped that Dean was ceasing to hide his thoughts.

‘I hurt you, okay!’ Dean puts up his hands, warding Castiel off, taking a step back so his shoulders bump the wall. ‘That night -- that _fucking_ night at Bobby’s! I know what I did, Cas -- you don’t have to -- Jesus, what d’you want to do? Take a shot at me? Fine! Go ahead!’ Dean drops his hands and thrusts out his chin. ‘Do your fucking worst!’

Castiel looks at him in pure puzzlement, anger dropping away before bewilderment. ‘You -- want me to hit you?’

‘Isn’t that what all this bullshit is about?’ Dean looks puzzled, now; half-angry, half-confused. ‘I _know_ what I did, Cas. And...Jesus, if I could take it back --’ He almost reaches out to touch Castiel’s hands, but flinches back at the last minute, shoving his hands in his pockets again. ‘Fuck, I’d _bleed_ to take it back but --’

‘Take _what_ back?’

‘I _raped_ you, Cas!’

The words ring in the room for an impossible minute.

The blood drains from Dean’s face and he closes his eyes, turning away from Castiel.

Castiel stares at him, unable to think for a long moment. 

He notices details, pointless details: Dean’s hair has been cut recently; there is a half-healed cut on his right forearm; his silver ring has a new scratch on it; there are threads hanging from the collar of his t-shirt. The skin under Dean’s eyes is dark, as if he has not been sleeping well. The younger man’s shoulders are heaving as he breathes, as if he has been running, and he is leaning on his thigh with his left hand, supporting himself on his knee.

‘So fuckin’ do it.’ Dean’s voice is low and hoarse. ‘Just...whatever you’re here to do. Do it. Get it over with.’

Castiel takes a step towards him and he can see the muscle tension as Dean almost flinches but holds himself steady at the last second. 

And it makes sense now -- it _all_ makes sense.

Castiel swallows, takes a deep breath, and speaks slowly: ‘I am...glad you...stood that young man up this evening.’

Dean grins at him, a twisted shadow of a real smile. ‘Yeah, I bet you are.’

‘No, Dean.’ Castiel takes another step towards him, putting out a hand as if Dean were an animal to soothe. This time, he succeeds in brushing his fingertips against Dean’s shoulder. Dean jerks and the effort he needs to hold himself still is visible in the tight lines of his shoulders and the sudden tension in his throat. Castiel takes another breath, trying to project what he feels. ‘You are not dangerous, Dean. You would not have hurt him. You did not hurt the others--’

‘Jesus fuck, Cas, I didn’t _do_ anything with the others!’ Dean’s voice is still rough and he is staring down at the rug -- an sprawling maroon pattern on dirty grey. 

‘But I saw--’

Dean holds up a hand, three fingers out stiff, and taps each one. ‘The chick wanted me to tie her up and...fuck, I don’t know. I got the hell out. The guy was a hooker; he got my shirt off, then asked me for fifty bucks. I left him standing and went and got hammered -- ask Sammy. And that Joel kid -- never touched me except for the first time.’ He glares up at Castiel. ‘I couldn’t -- I didn’t -- I _knew_ I’d fucking hurt them! Jesus, look what I did to _you_ and I-- You said...you _said_ you’d seen me and you knew I...I fucking...I couldn’t...’

‘You did not.’ Castiel touches his chin, pulls Dean’s head up. ‘You did _not.’_

There are tears thick in Dean’s eyes, glittering against his lids. ‘Don’t fucking lie.’

‘I would not lie to you, Dean.’ Something in Castiel’s chest is clenching in time with his heartbeat as Dean tries to blink away tears and fails. ‘Why would I lie to you?’

Dean shakes his head hard. ‘You want me to fight for you, to be your good little soldier.’

Castiel shakes his head, too. ‘No lie could be worth it.’ 

Dean scrapes at his eyes with the back of an oil-streaked hand. ‘I don’t...Cas...?’

Castiel brushes his thumb gently over Dean’s cheekbones, wiping away moisture. Dean flinches from his touch, eyes wide. ‘I thought I...’

‘You...startled me.’ Before Dean can jerk further away -- and possibly risk knocking himself unconscious on the wall -- Castiel cups his hands around Dean’s face, holding the younger man so he cannot pull back. ‘Nothing. Else.’

Dean’s hands come up to Castiel’s shoulders and grab on like the angel is saving him from falling. ‘I thought -- I could see -- where I -- bit you?’

Castiel shivers involuntarily. He remembers how that felt. ‘Yes.’

‘I...don’t remember...I remember dreaming, waking up -- I don’t -- you didn’t--’

Dean’s grip is starting to verge on the painful but Castiel doesn’t move. ‘Dean. Do you not think I could have stopped you had I wished to?’

‘I remember you saying you didn’t want me to touch you!’ It comes out like an agonized whisper as if Dean’s throat hurts him and he bites his lower lip hard, turning the skin white between his teeth.

Castiel shakes his head. ‘I never said that.’

Dean stares at him, stares into his eyes, does not blink. 

‘I did not understand what was happening.’ Castiel licks his lips, feeling his mouth suddenly dry. ‘That does not mean...that does not mean I did not want it to. I could have stopped you, Dean. Easily.’

Dean’s mouth twists into something that might be a shade of a smile. ‘Angel of the Lord.’

Castiel nods, watching Dean’s face. There is something happening behind Dean’s eyes that Castiel does not understand -- he can almost see the flicker of thoughts passing, but he does not know what they are. This blindness is something he has willed on himself; after all, it would be easy enough for him to know every thought that passed through Dean’s mind.

Castiel remembers a time when he thought that might be necessary -- that Dean would never say anything truthful to him, nothing that was not so thickly veiled behind sarcasm or bitter humor and double meaning that it would take him too long to interpret. 

Now, he cannot imagine breaking the sanctity of Dean’s thoughts for any but the worst emergency. 

‘Then why the _fuck_ didn’t you say something!’ The anger in Dean’s voice is completely unexpected and Castiel blinks. Dean is glaring at him, mouth a tight line, eyes sparking. ‘Christ, is this your idea of _fun,_ Cas? Watching me eat my goddamned heart out!’

‘You would not talk to me!’ Castiel shouts before he thinks. ‘I _tried,_ Dean, and you would not speak to me! How was I supposed to tell you _anything!’_ He can hear his voice loud in his own ears. ‘I tried to ask you so many times and as many ways as I could think of and you would not talk to me! How could I explain when you would not even stay in the same room as me!’

‘Cas...’ Dean is wincing away but Castiel is edging into fury.

‘I thought I had misunderstood, hurt you, forced you -- done something so terrible to you that you did not wish to be around me! I know you understand what that feels like, Dean -- did you _wish_ that on me?’ 

‘No! Christ! Cas -- turn it down--’ Dean has his hands pressed over his ears.

Castiel can feel his wings shaking, aching to expand, and he rips himself out of the room before they can.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From "Make Up Your Mind," Theory of a Deadman, _Theory of a Deadman_.


End file.
